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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081261">Love on the Menu</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses'>MalMuses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accident Shown (But Not Especially Graphic), Accidents, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barista Charlie Bradbury, But Apparently So Does Castiel, Comedy of Errors, Dean Winchester Needs to Use Actual Words, Fluff, From a prompt, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Newly Out Dean Winchester, Pining, Romantic Comedy, Wingwoman Charlie, Writer Castiel (Supernatural)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:55:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081261</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I don’t wanna break the heartbreak to you,” Charlie began in a hushed voice, “but whatever you gotta say, say it fast. He got a new job across town. After tomorrow he’s taking his Panini elsewhere” —her eyebrows waggled dramatically— “if you know what I mean.”  </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Order for Castiel, to go for Castiel!” Gilda called out across the room.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Now or never, Dean,” Charlie said softly.</i></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>The one where Dean can’t speak to Castiel—in more ways than one.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>938</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Love on the Menu</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desirae/gifts">Desirae</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, readers!</p><p>I hope you're all doing well. I feel like in this, the forsaken year of 2020, I genuinely have to hope that more than ever. All the good vibes to you, friends.</p><p>This fic...is not at all what I planned on posting next! I have several things lined up, some completely finished that I'm sitting on, either waiting for art or Bang dates or just for the right moment. But then, the wonderful Desirae tagged me in this prompt...and I just couldn't help myself. </p><p>The prompt is <a href="https://www.facebook.com/106854554040539/videos/1498029937067274/">here.</a> If you've ever seen the show 911 you may recognize it. I've not seen the show, but this scene I'm converting to Destiel below is wonderful!</p><p>This little fic is nothing but fluff. I hope you enjoy, and it keeps you entertained while I work on the rest of that stuff...</p><p>Thanks to: SOBS, followyourenergy, EllenOfOz, and of course, all my usual fic family for your endless support.</p><p>- Mal &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bobby frowned down at the once-white rag he was wiping his hands with, rubbing off the worst of the fresh black grease and oil from their morning’s work. His fingers, Dean knew, were stained with it; years upon years of work dyeing deep creases of his skin colors that no amount of salt scrub or foaming soap seemed able to remove. Dean knew his own hands would probably end up the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lunch?” Bobby grumbled, throwing the rag aside into the laundry bin next to the rickety sink. Singer’s Classic Auto may have had some fairly high-class clientele, thanks in no small part to Dean’s expertise with old cars, but the back end of the small shop looked pretty much like any other: full of parts, rags, and grumpy, sweaty employees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right on time,” Dean said, flicking his wrist so that his own rag joined Bobby’s in the repurposed metal trash can. “Usual?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a twinkle in Bobby’s eye as he said, “Like you’d let us get food from anywhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up,” Dean muttered under his breath, tugging down his rolled-up plaid sleeves. He might not be able to get his hands looking baby soft or have time to change his clothes, but he could try his best to look presentable with what he had.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bobby, Ash, and Jo’s snickers followed Dean out onto the forecourt. He’d pushed them from his mind by the time his boots hit the sidewalk, already focused on his destination: Queen City Bakery on 8th, a couple of blocks further downtown than Singer’s was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie—the queen—had opened the bakery and coffee shop a year ago, and once Dean had tried it, he’d never looked back. Charlie’s wife Gilda made some of the most magical pie flavors Dean had ever seen, and they did a swift trade in wedding creations, birthday cakes, and celebratory cupcakes. They also sold the best coffee Sioux Falls had to offer, as well as hefty lunch fare that quelled the appetites of Dean’s hungry coworkers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean had been there at least three times per week since the door sign first turned to an elegantly scripted, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Come on in, Bitches”</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Queen had become a good friend, and she was probably the only one who knew the real reason Dean was the go-to lunch guy at an auto shop that had a perfectly eager intern. (Though, unfortunately, Kevin was more likely to drop the lunches than bring them back in once piece. The kid was an absolute genius with the accounts and business side though, Bobby said.) Bobby had an idea, a twinkle in his eye...but Charlie was the only one who knew.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The real reason that Dean went to Queen City Bakery thrice a week was Castiel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been “Trench Coat Guy” for a while, then “Blue-Eyes” for a time last summer when the sunlight from the glass front of the bakery had hit his face just right. But then, finally, Dean had overhead Gilda calling, “Order for Castiel! To go for Castiel!” and his pointless crush had a name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean tried to arrange his plaid button-up to cover the grease stain in the hem of the plain t-shirt he was wearing beneath it, but there was really no way to disguise a huge black streak on white fabric. So he sucked in the sigh that was about to escape, shook his head, and pushed open the skinny door in the corner of the stone courtyard that led to the secreted away—but incredibly popular—bakery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, handmaiden!” Charlie called out over the heads of the lunchtime throng. The bakery was noisy at this time of day, but by then they knew each other well enough to pick their voices out of the crowd with ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calling me that isn’t going to make me come larping with you again,” Dean responded, moving to the front of the crowd of folks waiting for their sandwiches and leaning his elbows on the counter. “All the usuals please, Charles, no almonds, extra shot in the coffees.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Already gotcha,” Charlie said, nodding toward the frantically steaming sandwich press. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smiling warmly, Dean winked at her before dropping a ten into the tip jar next to the pastry case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, Dean looked up. And of course, there he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At about six feet tall, by Dean’s estimation, it was easy to pick Castiel out of the crowd. His shock of dark hair always had a few out of control strands; Dean thought they suggested a very slight curl to the ends behind his ears, right where Dean would like to bury his nose in the glow of a morning after. His skin was tanned—not freckled like Dean, just healthy and warm-looking—and his tiny smile always caused a riot of attractive wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he thanked Charlie or Gilda for his food.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gilda was serving him today, and Dean watched Castiel’s overwhelmingly blue eyes regard her intensely as he quietly gave his order. Dean wished he could have that intensity focused on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie pushed the first coffee—Bobby’s, plain black, no messin’—across the counter toward Dean. With a knowing smile, she flicked her eyes over her shoulder to where Dean was gazing, then shook her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should’ve known,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean sighed wistfully. “Do you think he even knows my name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie smirked dangerously. Turning away from Dean, she reached across to the pastry case to pull Dean’s apple pie slice from its doily and slide it into a white box. Then, her eyes on Castiel, she shouted loudly, “Order for Dean! To go for Dean!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without even blinking, Castiel’s eyes snapped straight up from Gilda and looked over at Charlie and Dean. Horrified, Dean swiftly stepped to the side, obscuring himself at least partly behind the register.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He definitely knows your name,” Charlie said with a smug wink, tucking the pie box into the bottom of the large paper bag she was preparing for Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was shameful and embarrassing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My God, dude, just talk to him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would involve me saying words to his face,” Dean muttered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pathetic. Dean had </span>
  <em>
    <span>game. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Or...he had. Before. With girls. He was newly out of the closet this last year, okay. Give him a break. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have been looking at him like you were starving and he was lunch for months now,” Charlie scolded as she swiped Dean’s card. “You got Bobby to adjust your lunch schedule to match his. You are one order of boiled bunny away from being a stalker! Find the words!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got the words!” At Charlie’s raised brow Dean sighed, digging out his wallet again, and pulled out the heavily creased, repeatedly folded Queen City Bakery menu that’d he’d been carrying around for...a while. Longer than he cared to admit to Charlie, anyway. “Right here. The words. Just not the spine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wrote a love note. On a menu.” Charlie said flatly, carefully unfolding the scruffy pages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s right there,” Dean said with a smirk. “Under </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘hot teas’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over the tinkle of the bell that signaled another customer leaving with their lunch, Charlie started reading aloud, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“No man is an island, but two men together can share the world.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean raised a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at the heat he could feel building there, while Charlie bit her lip against the burst of laughter he could see in her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, Dean?” she squeaked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bit lyrical, sure, but it really opens up in the later pages,” Dean defended himself with a twist of sarcasm, swiping a handful of napkins to take back to the shop with him. “Why, what would you say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi. I’m Dean. Wanna hook up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shakespearean,” Dean said.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wanna hook up </span>
  </em>
  <span>was definitely what Dean would have tried if he’d met a good looking guy in, say, a club or a bar. But this was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Castiel. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The guy was not only catastrophically gorgeous and smartly dressed, but over the months Dean had learned (from overheard conversations and tidbits from Charlie and Gilda) that he had a really fancy job as a writer and reviewer for a high-brow literary magazine who had offices downtown. Dean couldn’t manage to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>“wanna hook up”</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he could sure manage to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>“outta my league”</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a papery crinkle and a pointed expression, Charlie pushed Dean’s carrier bag of lunches over the counter toward him. “Here you go,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean reached to grab the bag, but Charlie hadn’t let go—they briefly played tug of war for a moment before Charlie sighed, then subtly tilted her head to the side, indicating the opposite end of the counter. Where, of course, Castiel was putting his lid back on his coffee after stirring in his sweetener of choice. (Honey—always honey.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t wanna break the heartbreak to you,” Charlie began in a hushed voice, “but whatever you gotta say, say it fast. He got a new job across town. After tomorrow he’s taking his Panini elsewhere” —her eyebrows waggled dramatically— “if you know what I mean.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Order for Castiel, to go for Castiel!” Gilda called out across the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now or never, Dean,” Charlie said softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait—what? Dean had just opened his mouth to protest (as if that would somehow have done him any good) when the chime above the door tinkled once again, indicating Castiel’s quiet departure from the bakery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—what—no!” Dean spluttered. This wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>fair, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hadn’t had time! He’d had nearly a year, sure, but that wasn’t the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was just a little crush. A ridiculously all-encompassing crush, maybe, but still a crush. It didn’t matter that he probably wouldn’t ever see the guy again. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing behind the counter with Dean’s change in one hand and his stupid, stupid love letter menu in the other, Charlie raised her eyebrow at Dean like she was waiting for something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ahh hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean reached out, grabbed the brown Queen City Bakery lunch bag, and ran. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dashing out onto 8th street, Dean dodged the endless downtown walking traffic, weaving between women in suits and guys in flip flops, people living their lives and </span>
  <em>
    <span>getting in his damn way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was noisy, there was construction happening downtown—a new office block behind the bakery, the city paper said—and honking horns and yelling kids on summer break. Calling out Castiel’s name probably wouldn’t help.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d only made it a few steps from the bakery door, what with darting this way and that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean turned, still moving, looking back the way he’d come in case Castiel had slipped out and gone in the other direction for some reason. He couldn’t see him, though, so Dean turned back to—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>OOOOOF!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean barely had a fraction of a sliver of a second to register the two guys in hard hats carrying a metal pipe across the pavement at throat height.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a lightning strike of pain across his neck, Dean’s world flipped over. No—wait, that was him. Dean flipped, catching air before he slammed down into the pavement on his back. For a moment, Dean wasn’t certain what hurt more—his throat, or his shoulder blades where he’d smacked into the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No...scratch that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raising a disoriented hand, Dean let out a desolatory croak. Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> breathing hurt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around him and above him, there were yelling voices and exclamations of surprise and panic as people registered what was happening—but then there was a solid pounding of boots against the concrete, someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>sprinting</span>
  </em>
  <span> down the street, and a familiar, tousle-headed shape framed against the blur of the skyline above Dean’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“911, what’s your emergency?” a distant, tinny voice said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean struggled for air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes—I’m outside Queen City Bakery on 8th.” Castiel’s deep, rasping tone was right above Dean’s head. “He just—He can’t talk! I don’t think he can breathe!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything was fuzzy, and the time between Castiel arriving and the sound of an ambulance siren stretched out and contracted and swished around in hazy gray until it felt like no time at all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, though the pain was intense and unlike anything Dean had ever felt, he could breathe. It sucked and brought tears to his eyes, but he could, once the initial shock passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Paramedics, coming through!” a strong, Cajun Louisiana accent parted the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two men, one burly and short-haired and one gangly and perky-looking, rushed to Dean’s side with a stretcher between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” the first guy said, looking up at Castiel where he still stood above Dean, finally slipping his cell phone back into his trench coat pocket, “can you tell us what happened?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Dean, the skinnier guy said, “Can you speak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean gargled and croaked, his sounds as close to, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“No, but I’m trying,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he could make them.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel took a step back, letting the medics get to Dean. His voice was a little shaky as he said, “I didn’t see much, but these two construction guys—they cut him off, I suppose, carrying a metal pole over the pavement. He ran straight into it, it caught him right in the neck, I think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burly medic was nodding as the second one agreed, “In the throat, looks like—possible impact with the windpipe, could be tracheal, maybe even esophageal damage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressing around Dean’s chest and throat with gloved fingers and what Dean assumed was a stethoscope, the one with the impressive Southern accent nodded and agreed. “Windpipe is constricted but clear. Let’s get him on O2.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Skinny guy flashed a bright light in Dean’s eyes. “Pupillary responses are good, doesn’t look like anything neurological. Let’s just get him in a brace to support his neck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s right,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean thought desperately, </span>
  <em>
    <span>my brain is just fine, it’s my damn throat that hurts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>God, this was so humiliating, Castiel had been right there and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know his name?” Louisiana was asking Castiel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With what might have been a sheepish look down at Dean, Castiel nodded. “Yes—yes, his name is Dean. Dean Winchester, I think.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean blinked, even more dazed than when the pole had hit him. Castiel knew his name? Castiel knew his name!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He works at Singer Classic Auto just down the street,” Castiel was continuing, a flush that Dean could only describe as adorable staining his cheeks. “I don’t know if this matters, but he may have a nut allergy? He orders the same stuff every day, anyway, and always says no almonds on one of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I like nuts,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean thought vaguely. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s Jo’s salad, she doesn’t like almonds…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Raising his hand to grasp at the arm of the skinny guy fastening a brace around his neck, Dean croaked desperately in Castiel’s direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I think he’s trying to talk to me,” Castiel said, his brow furrowed. He stepped closer, right up next to the two paramedics, who were sliding Dean carefully onto the stretcher they’d brought from the ambulance with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s he trying to say?” The bigger guy asked, tilting his head closer to Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the edge of the circle of passers-by (that had turned into a circle of standing and staring) a small tussle occurred, and then—lifting his head awkwardly due to both the brace and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>throbbing pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>—Dean saw Charlie elbowing her way through the crowd. In her hand, she had—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No man is an island!” Charlie called, reciting clearly from the Queen City Bakery menu in her hands as she rushed over to the stretcher. “But two men together can share the world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh fuck, Charlie, what the hell—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, I’m Dean—God this is so stupid,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes up to the sky momentarily before she looked back down at Dean, then to Castiel. Smiling awkwardly at him, she continued reading on Dean’s behalf. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed me the last few months. I work in an auto shop doing rich folks oil changes so I never do feel very seen, but I have seen you—I’ve seen how kind you are to people…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think we’re caught in the middle of some weird Shakespeare in the park thing, boss,” the gangly medic whispered over the top of Dean’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie was picking up steam, though, reciting Dean’s words right to Castiel. “...I don’t always have the courage to speak to guys, but some days I’m more afraid not to. So, I’ve written it all down to say it clearly, and for myself—well, for himself,” she interrupted herself quickly, “because I would never, ever do this—but he would! He’s way nicer than I am...very single, totally datable—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Screw the pain in his throat—Dean made desperate, croaking noises of embarrassment and horror, but both of the paramedics hastily shushed him, their eyes on Charlie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not in the note, I’m just improvising,” Charlie added. The paramedics, and Castiel—fuck, Castiel was still right there, flushed and wide-eyed—were all chuckling and smiling, exchanging amused grins overtop of Dean.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With an air of dramatic finality, Charlie smoothed out the horrendously crushed Queen City Bakery menu and picked back up again. “So, if the image of a nervous, newly out of the closet mechanic reading poetry on the back of a lunch menu doesn’t turn you off, I only have one question.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blinking his gorgeous eyes in amazement, Castiel looked down at Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean croaked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you trying to say something?” the husky paramedic asked Dean again, leaning close so that his ear was near Dean’s mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would—” Dean choked out breathlessly, his crushed windpipe burning and punishing him for even attempting the word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s he trying to say?” Castiel asked, his eyes on Dean, wringing his fingers together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean looked up at the big, badged up and serious-looking Sioux Falls medic. He put everything into that look, he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pleading</span>
  </em>
  <span>—his little brother Sammy would have been proud of the puppy dog eyes Dean pulled. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“C’mon, dude,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean tried to say with his look. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Help a disaster bi brother out.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause where Dean could feel the weight of every single one of the stares he was getting from the gawkers surrounding his stretcher. But then, finally, a small twinkle passed through the guy’s blue eyes. They were a pretty blue, Dean hazily noted, but nothing on Castiel’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The paramedic gave Castiel a small smile. “Would you like to ride in the back of the ambulance with him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel froze, his mouth slightly open, before his eyes flicked down to meet Dean’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean gave an encouraging smile—which might have been part wince, but Jesus Christ, give him a break today—and held Castiel’s gaze, hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Flushing again, a beautiful pink around his neck that Dean wanted to trace down into his collar, Castiel moistened his lips and gave a nervous-looking nod. “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” asked the paramedic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said Castiel, more firmly, smiling shyly down at Dean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly all the gawkers became a clapping audience, and Charlie was squealing, and even the paramedics were slapping Dean on his shoulders (carefully, away from his brace).</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my God, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean thought ecstatically as his stretcher was finally lifted off the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t believe that worked! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Charlie gave him a grinning thumbs-up as the ambulance doors closed, and Castiel hopped up into the back of the square Sioux Falls Rescue ambulance right next to him. Finally letting his eyes sink closed as he tried to ignore the pain in his throat, Dean was strapped in and on his way to the hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel held his hand the whole way there.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Am I done with these two?</p><p>I strongly suspect not, but as I mentioned in my opening note, I do have a lot of other things I'm working on. So for now, I'm leaving this as a standalone...but their first date is already playing out in my head, so I've set up a series for this little 'Verse, for any other standalone little ficlets that come to mind involving them.</p><p>Please do subscribe to me if you'd like to see more, or feel free to come over and say hi on <a href="https://malmuses.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> or follow me on twitter @malmuses or IG @mal_muses.</p><p>I hope you enjoyed, and I hope you are well. Take care of yourselves, please!</p><p>- Mal &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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